David Lebovitz's Blog, page 118

Lausanne, Switzerland

Everyone has a story about the Swiss, which sometimes ends up with them getting reprimanded for moving something out of the exact place where it belongs. Or arriving twelve seconds too late and missing a train. So I was freaking out when I was en route there because I filled out the blank spaces myself on my railpass that asked for my name and passport number. Just after I did that, I read just that said not to do that: the station agent must be the one to take care of that.

I've learned what happens when you infringe on the rules in France and I was expecting them to void my ticket and force me to buy a new one. I was once on a train to Lyon and the birth date on my ticket was wrong—it said the actual date of the day of travel (that date) rather than the day I was born. And the conductor insisted I buy a brand new ticket.

Only because I insisted back for about ten minutes that it was actually not really possible that I was born on the exact same day as that train ride that he finally let this scofflaw off. (Also thanks to the woman next to me who intervened and pointed out that it was, indeed, inconceivable that I was born on that day.)

Ready for a fight, when the agent at the Swiss ticket window thanked me for filling out the information, so he didn't have to, all stress that I was carrying around instantly melted away, like a big pile of grated cheese in a warm simmering pot of Fondue.

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Roasted Figs

For some reason, fresh fig season seemed to have slipped right past me this year. Either that, or I wasn't looking very hard because normally when I see fresh figs, I can't help bringing home a big sack of them and snacking on them all week. Figs have two seasons; the first is usually late summer and the second begins mid-fall. The second crop is better-tasting and toward the end of the season, the prices drop as the bounty increases.

Last weekend at the market I saw some very nice looking figs and even though I thought the season had passed me by, I sneaked a squeeze when the vendor wasn't looking and I could feel through their skin the juiciness of a ripe 'n ready fig, so I took a gamble and bought a very big bag. And when I got home, I was happy to find that when sliced open, they were a bright ruby-red inside and indeed, just perfect. So to make them last a wee bit longer, I decided to oven-roast a portion of them to conserve my late season windfall.

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Marché des Producteurs

I was actually thrilled to see a market of producteurs that was happening this weekend in Paris. We have some great food available in Paris but I don't get the opportunity often to meet and shop directly from the people who are producing the food. This is especially true with meat, which is sold by butchers and not the people who raise it, but I also wanted to see some of the more interesting roots and vegetables that don't always find their way in to Paris from the countryside.

Generally speaking, a lot of these tasting salon that are held around the year in Paris are well-stocked with three things: foie gras, mountain cheeses, and sausages. Wine doesn't count as one of the three, as that's a given.

There are lots of people offering tastes of wine. It's one of the few things where samples of it at markets are gladly given. I remember a few years ago at a wine fair I told the seller that I'd take a bottle of his Muscadet, since I was having oysters that night, and he was rather shocked that I didn't want to try it first. (So I did, just to be polite.) But I'm actually happier sitting in a café and enjoying a glass rather than manoeuvering around other people en masse, Costco-style, jostling for a little sip.

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Baked Apricot Bars

I'd been planning for the trip for years, ever since I first laid my hands on a copy of Baked, the cookbook. Quite a few baking books come out and a lot are really good, but this one spoke to me. I mean, each and every dessert sounded like something I not only wanted to bake, but wanted to eat. As in right away.

As I read through the pages, I have to say that I fell in love with everything in there, from the Baked brownies to the Sweet and Salty Chocolate Cake. With those swirls and swirls of shiny, dark chocolate, I just wanted to dive right into that cake headfirst. And I know this might get me into a little trouble, but I found I had a sweet spot for the authors as well.

I was entranced because Renato Poliafito and Matt Lewis of Baked share with me a similar sensibility about desserts: we seem to agree that forceful, dynamic flavors, trump elaborate presentations, and prefer to let just a few great ingredients shine. Unfortunately it took me about a year after I read their book (and an interesting bus ride from Manhattan) to get there, but it was worth the wait.

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French Apple Cake

It's interesting that there are so many views of Paris, which you notice if you follow the variety of voices that write about life in the city. I tend to find all the quirks and report on the sardonic side of things, which for some reason, always find their way into my life. But the main reason is that I live here full-time and deal with not just sampling my way through the lovely pastry shops and meeting chocolatiers, but also spend a fair amount of time wresting with perplexing bureaucracy and other idioms of life in the City of Fight Light.

For example, last week I went to the largest fabric store in Paris where I always buy étamine (cotton gauze), which I couldn't locate so I asked a salesperson. He was having a nice chat with his co-workers but was kind enough to take a moment to tell me "Non", they didn't carry it, and went back to his conversation. After I raised an eyebrow and asked a few more times just be sure, he and all the others in the group shook their heads, confirming with absolute certainty that they definitely did not have that in stock.

Because I was absolutely certain that they did, I went down one level and, of course, found a huge bolt of it right on top of the pile of other rolls of fabric.

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Raclette

Sometimes you wonder if people do eat all the stuff we think they eat in other countries. Do Russian people really eat blini and follow them up with shots of iced vodka? In Hawaii, are people sitting around dipping their fingers into bowls of poi? Do Americans actually eat the skins of potatoes? How many Parisians actually nibble on macarons? And is it so that Swiss people eat copious amounts of melted cheese, stirred around in pots and heaped on plates?

People in Switzerland actually do eat Fondue and Raclette, as I found out on a recent visit. But eating Raclette outside of Switzerland is like eating a New York hot dog anywhere but standing on a crowded sidewalk in New York. Sure you can do it, but it's not as much fun. (And somehow never tastes as good.)

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Brown Bread Ice Cream

When I was in Ireland, after a wonderful dinner at an old country inn, I was served a big bowl of Brown Bread Ice Cream. I had heard about this unusual ice cream quite a while back and like Grape-Nuts Ice Cream, which is something apparently enjoyed in New England (although I was born and live there for eighteen years and never saw or tasted even a lick of it), I was intrigued by the idea of bits of dark crunchies embedded in scoops of cool, creamy ice cream.

One bite, of course, and I was hooked and wanted to make it when I got home. I wasn't quite sure how to go about it, and I sent a message to the inn inquiring about the process, but after a few weeks of checking my Inbox every three minutes, I just couldn't wait any longer and decided to come up with one on my own.

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Making Swiss Cheese Fondue

I've never really had fondue. Well, I am sure that at some point in my life someone dusted off their never-used fondue pot from the back of their kitchen cabinet and melted some stringy cheese in it. But it must not have been memorable because I can't recall it at all. (Or perhaps a few shots of kirsch took care of that.)

Swiss fondue is not just melted cheese with bread dipped in it; it's an opportunity to gather some friends around a heaving pot of bubbling cheese and having a great time. The word fondue is a riff of the French verb fondre, which means "to melt." So theoretically anything melted could be a fondue, although I didn't see any chocolate fondues in Switzerland and if you mentioned one to someone they might give you a funny look.

Fondue isn't that hard to make (or eat), and I recently had an authentic one in Switzerland that I spent all night afterward thinking about it. Of course, I'm sure that digesting a big pot of melted cheese probably had a little to do with that as well.

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Librairie Gastéréa: Gastronomic Bookstore

Like most men (and it seems from my previous post, quite a few women, married or otherwise), have a crush on Sophia Loren. My passion was aroused when I walked by the Librairie Gastéréa and saw her beaming face as she lovingly rolled out sheets of pasta on the book jacket parked enticingly in their window.

So I was happy to have a chance to go inside and see the collection of Henri-Daniel and Tania Wibaut, who've owned this shop for about six years.

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Food Blogging Camp 2011

I'm thrilled to announce my participation in the third annual Food Blogger Camp!

From January 5-9, 2011, I'll be reuniting with some of my best friends and food bloggers to present a fun-filled fiesta overlooking the sensational Grand Velas on the sandy turquoise beaches of Riviera Maya, near Playa del Carmen in Mexico.

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